Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. <br />(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.) <br />In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor <br />Sewing a shroud for a journey <br />By the light of the meat-eating sun. <br />Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, <br />With my red veins full of money, <br />In the final direction of the elementary town <br />I advance as long as forever is.<br /><br />Dylan Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/twenty-four-years-2/
